I graduated from the University of California at Davis in … well, let’s not worry about the actual date. Let’s just say it was a while ago.
UC Davis has a tradition of opening up the campus every spring for one Saturday afternoon. They call the event ‘Picnic Day.’ Originally, Picnic Day was created as an opportunity for parents to come to Davis, visit with their children, and try to figure out why they were paying thousands of dollars every year to let their kids attend the school. There were opportunities to meet administrators, there was often a school baseball game scheduled for the day, and information booths were set up by all the major fields of study at the university to hand out flyers and answer questions.
Over the years, this folksy, family-oriented event has morphed into something much bigger. It is more of a carnival atmosphere these days, with food trucks, games, stage performances, parades, and souvenir garbage for purchase. There is also an assortment of individuals wandering around the campus that on any other day would have been sent on their way by the local police. I count myself among that particular group.
I have not been to Picnic Day since I was a student at the school. This year, however, I decided to go.
Two of my college roommates contacted me and said they wanted us to all get together for a reunion and Picnic Day was the perfect excuse to do it.
One of my roommates, Chris, I see every couple of years. Whenever my family is in southern California, we get together with her and her family and visit for a day. The other roommate, Steve, I have not seen in over twenty-five years.
I don’t know much about Steve or what he has been up to during the last two dozen years. I only see pictures of him when he posts on social media. His life is clearly much better than mine, since I occasionally scroll through snapshots of him hiking and bicycling through foreign countries, while I am sitting on the couch brushing corn chip crumbs off of my chest.
But despite the differences in our lives, I agreed to go.
My wife and I showed up in Davis at ten o’clock in the morning. Chris was with us, since she had flown in from San Diego the night before and was staying at our place. Steve was running late, so the three of us that were already there decided to go to the college bookstore and buy some UC Davis clothing as a reminder that at one time we were young and had things in our lives to look forward to. Chris and I bought hoodies with UC Davis on the front. At $50 apiece, how could we pass them up? Such a bargain!
My wife offered to take pictures of us with our new gear so, in 90-plus-degree weather, we donned sweatshirts and posed for photographs. This was probably the dumbest thing we did all day, and this is on a day that we attended a cockroach race, ate bacon-chili-cheese fries for breakfast, and spent twenty minutes staring at six differently-colored garbage cans trying to figure out where to throw away a plastic fork. By the time we were done taking pictures, my brand-new sweatshirt had fully lived up to its name. (I’m referring to the ‘sweat’ part, since I assume it was always a shirt.)
Steve showed up as I was drinking a 4-dollar bottle of water and trying to overcome my mild case of heatstroke. I recognized him the second I saw him. I must admit that I was a little put out by the fact that he looked exactly the same as the last time I saw him, twenty-five years ago. I kinda wanted to punch him. I restrained myself, though. Mostly because he’s bigger than I am and in much better shape, and I didn’t feel like taking a beating in front of a thousand strangers.
I got over my hard feelings pretty quickly. Later that evening, Steve bought us all dinner at a very nice restaurant in town, and it is extremely difficult to remain mad at someone who is providing you with free food.
Besides, spending time with Chris and Steve reminded me of how much I enjoyed hanging out with them when we were kids. For a little while, it felt like we had never been apart, and we were still the same twenty-somethings hanging out over a couple of beers and talking about what classes we were taking that semester.
It was an absolutely perfect day. It was the kind of reunion everyone hopes for when getting together with old friends, but that so rarely actually happens.
At the end of the day, Steve and I hugged, said our goodbyes, and went our separate ways. We promised each other that we were going to do a better job of keeping in touch and that we would make some plans to get together again soon. We were sincere when we said it, but I am aware that life and reality often get in the way of good intentions.
I’m sure I will see Steve again. I feel fairly certain about that. It could be in a few months, or it could be in a few years. It might even be another couple decades before we cross paths again. I hope not, but it’s possible.
And, I bet when I see him, that son of a bitch will still look like he’s twenty-five years old.
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